


getting closer to the edge

by WhyWouldIEver



Series: Flying Blind [2]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Age Difference, Bisexual Arthur Morgan, Bisexual John Marston, Hand Jobs, M/M, No Underage Sex, Pre-Canon, Stupid Boys being Stupid, boys tripping into sexual relationships, but don't do that really it's just porn, plot? I don't know her, they go hunting but there's no actual hunting here, unless you wanna go deep and think john is hunting arthur ha ha ha
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-27
Updated: 2020-05-27
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:40:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24404452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhyWouldIEver/pseuds/WhyWouldIEver
Summary: “I ain’t sayin’ we can’t,” Arthur says. He mindlessly pinches a bit of John’s shirt between two fingers. “I guess I just don’t know why you want to with me.” He shrugs one shoulder and releases, then smoothes the crease out of John’s shirt.And John doesn’t really know what to say, what answer he could give that might convince Arthur of anything, especially since he doesn’t even really know why other than that he justdoes. All he knows is he wants to kiss Arthur, touch him, hear all the different sounds he can make, all the stupid little jokes he probably tells in the middle of it. So John just thinksfuck itand he fists a hand in Arthur’s shirt, pulls him forward and into a kiss.-John and Arthur are still working out what exactly is going on between the two of them.
Relationships: John Marston/Arthur Morgan
Series: Flying Blind [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1762330
Comments: 8
Kudos: 75





	getting closer to the edge

**Author's Note:**

> I keep writing John as more introspective than I originally intended, but I guess that’s alright. He’s not just a feral wolf boy stereotype, or actually an idiot. He’s shown himself to be plenty introspective and thoughtful in both games. 
> 
> Also, this is technically a sequel to [if you want we could be](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23873701) and there are some callbacks to that which might not make sense, but I don’t really think it’s 100% necessary to read that one if you aren’t into the idea of Arthur and John sort of having sex with a woman. Just go in with the knowledge while reading this that they’re still working shit out and anything that doesn't make sense is probably a reference to something that happened in the other story.

It’s been a strange few days since the night by the lake. After everything had gone down they’d washed up in the shallows of the water together and walked back to camp side by side before parting ways to their separate tents to sleep. John had woken up the next morning not knowing what to expect, but the joke was absolutely on him because Arthur has acted so _normal_ ever since. Like John is nothing more to him than another member of the gang, no different than Bill fucking Williamson as far as he’s concerned. 

And he’s been watching Arthur ever since, can’t help it, his eyes tracking him from across the camp while Arthur feeds the horses or as he sits cleaning his guns, and John knows he ain’t been subtle. Least ways not subtle to Arthur who somehow always manages to turn around and catch John right in the middle of staring, lost in thoughts like the way Arthur’s chest had felt under his hand, the way the hair had rasped against his palm, or the rough feeling of the bark of the tree against his back as Arthur thrust his hips against John’s. Even stupid little things like the zing of pain when Arthur's hand yanked on his hair when they’d been wrestling in the shallow water of the lake. 

Now it’s the dead of night and everyone is asleep, the camp all quiet minus the sounds of nature and Pearson’s snoring on the air. John is on his back on his cot, the flaps of his tent pulled closed cutting off any light from outside, just staring up into the darkness. He’s restless, aching to go out and shoot something or someone, feel that adrenaline rush of robbing some rich asshole or his fists colliding with a drunken idiot in a saloon. But instead he’s in the dark thinking about Arthur fucking Morgan just like he has been every other goddamn night. Tonight his brain seems fixated on the sense memory of Arthur’s rough hands as he’d pulled back on John’s hips when he’d been fucking Belle, the heat of him as he’d stroked John’s cock when he came. 

But before his brain can really get into it, his thoughts shift and start thinking about whether Arthur is off in _his_ tent right now thinking about John, if he’s been looking back at John when he doesn’t know it. If he’s maybe better at hiding it or if he just hasn’t been looking back at all. John grits his teeth at the thought and tries to focus back on better things, something to focus his attention on that might relieve the growing tension running along what seems like every muscle in his body. But it’s hopeless. He shifts around to his side, bunches up his pillow under his head, and tries to fall asleep. 

  


* * *

  


The next day he’s cranky, knows he’s acting like an asshole, but doesn’t really give a shit. He’s sitting alone at a table eating stew some time after noon, his head propped up on a fist as he drags his spoon through the cold remains, the meat the wrong side of fatty and a gritty texture making the entire pot nearly inedible. He watches Arthur out of the corner of his eye where he’s sitting around laughing with Hosea while they play dominoes. John’s bored out of his goddamn mind, and frustrated, aching to get out and do something. Even if that something is punching in some random asshole’s face just for looking at him wrong. 

He stands up, discards the stew, drops the bowl off in the washbasin, and goes on a walk instead. He wanders along the path out of camp for a while, leaves crunching under his boots, until he steps out into the small clearing by the lake. He stands there staring out across the water, gaze unfocused, his mind tripping over memories like the way Arthur’s wet shoulders had practically glowed in the moonlight. Or the chill of the water when he’d waded in after Arthur with all his stupid determination to get Arthur to talk or _do something_ rather than ignore John and act like nothing happened just as he appears to be doing now too. 

He huffs an irritated sigh at himself and turns toward the tree he’d been pushed up against. He leans back against it, tilting his head to look through the canopy of leaves up to the cloudy sky above. He rubs his back into the bark just to feel that same sense memory of it pressing into his skin through his clothes.

  


* * *

  


It’s late afternoon as he walks back into camp, their few tents haphazardly set up here and there and a couple blazing fires dotted between. Pearson is trying to salvage the stew, muttering to himself as John passes by, Williamson is lazing around as usual. Dutch and Hosea have their heads bent in close together as they talk, lost in their own little world of philosophy or whatever the hell else they can talk about for hours on end. John hasn’t got a clue where Miss Grimshaw has gone off to, but he doesn’t much care either as he sees Arthur gathering his things like he’s preparing to set off soon. 

With a curl of disdain on his lip, John turns around and marches himself over to Arthur’s horse where he fully intends to ambush him, giving him nowhere to go and nowhere to hide if he insists on heading out. He pats the horse’s flank, then runs his hand along the length of his face, up into his hair, and back down his neck. He reaches into the saddlebag already secured on top for an oatcake, breaking it off into pieces in his hand so he can feed them to the horse one by one. He takes his time while he waits for Arthur to appear.

He knows the second Arthur spots him standing there, can see the way he hesitates out of the corner of his eye, fully pausing a beat but then continues walking over like it never happened. John scoffs to himself, brushes the oatcake crumbs off his hands, and turns to stare as Arthur steps up next to his horse. 

“You leavin’?” John asks, and he knows he sounds accusatory, but he still doesn’t give a shit. Arthur rolls his eyes and John tenses, readying for a fight.

“We need food,” Arthur says and his eyes finally flick up to meet John’s. “I know you know we do, I saw you picking at it earlier.” He cringes a little after he realizes what he’s said. And John, well. He feels a tiny surge of triumph. Arthur _has_ been watching back, even if he probably tried not to. But it’s enough for John right then. 

“Can I come?” he asks.

“ _You_ want to come hunting?” Arthur laughs at the notion, which John thinks is a little unnecessary. He hunts. He just doesn’t like doing it the way Arthur seems to. He doesn’t have this _need_ to go out into the wilderness the way Arthur so clearly does.

So he just scowls and says, “Yeah,” as he stares Arthur down.

To Arthur’s credit, he doesn’t argue about it, even if part of John wants him to. “Pack your shit then. I’m leaving in five minutes with or without you.” John hurries to his tent to collect what he needs and is packed and mounted on his own horse with a minute to spare.

  


* * *

  


John has no idea where they’re headed as they ride along for a good few hours. He ain’t familiar with the area the same as Arthur, who probably had the whole place scoped out by the end of their second day here. So he rides behind Arthur the whole way, occasionally taking in the surrounding nature while he smokes, but mostly he just spends the ride staring at the familiar line of Arthur’s back. He can tell that Arthur can feel his eyes on him by the way he’s holding his shoulders tense like he’s waiting for John to do something, but John honestly doesn’t have a clue what Arthur expects.

So they keep riding in silence as sunset approaches, miles away from camp now, and Arthur apparently in no hurry to stop and set up for the night. 

John is lost in thought as the sky is turning shades of pink and orange, the setting sun peeking between the trees as they pass by. He jumps a little in his saddle when Arthur breaks the silence. “Have you been with a man, John?”

He ain’t got a damn clue what to say to _that_ , and he blushes for some goddamn reason even though Arthur hasn’t even turned around to look at him. “What?” he asks, feeling like an idiot.

Arthur keeps riding along in front of him, head barely angled toward John like he’s not actually even talking to him. “I know you fuck women, but have you slept with a man?”

“Why?” John asks, voice defensive as his hackles rise.

But Arthur just asks, voice pitched all nonchalant like this is at all a reasonable sort of conversation, “Have you?”

John grits his teeth, doesn’t want to answer. But Arthur’s _asking_ and, well. If it gets him nearer to something then he’ll just be honest. “No,” he near mumbles. Then he lifts his head from where his chin has been angled down to his chest. “Nothing besides what I did with you.” 

For a second he feels like he might’ve achieved some kind of small victory. Knocked Arthur into acknowledging _something_. But of course, Arthur denies him even that, just keeps riding along, facing forward and not saying another word. He sits there while John’s anger rises, simmering into a boil and about to bubble over. 

Arthur breaks the uncomfortable silence first. He speaks in circles, sentences cut off awkwardly or starting one sentence only to pause and go down another path instead. He’s completely failing at trying to convey whatever he’s trying to say, but whatever it is John can only interpret as Arthur calling him a fool and then somehow putting himself down in the process.

John says nothing in reply to any of it, just snorts in disgust loud enough he knows Arthur heard it. But the silent treatment weren’t ever John’s strength and it’s only a few minutes before he can’t take it anymore. “You started this,” he snaps like a bullet aimed at Arthur’s back. 

Arthur’s answering silence has John’s hand itching to throw a punch, would if he were close.

“Yeah. I guess I did.”

  


* * *

  


The silence after he says that is uneasy, John fuming as his mind whirls, wondering things like _the hell did I even come here for_? And _the hell did he let me come along_? Not like he did before unless Dutch or Hosea made him. And his thoughts go sprinting down that particular road, tripping on it as he thinks about how Arthur had _always_ gone out alone for about as long as John has known any of them, disappearing for days at a time with no trace. Dutch and Hosea never seemed to worry about it, even though they’d’ve chewed John up and spit him out if he’d done the same thing. 

He’d even asked ‘em about it once, but if they knew where he’d go off to, they weren’t sharing that information with John. Then one day, Arthur had ridden back into camp a lot sooner than usual, his expression dark as a moonless night. He hadn’t said a word to anybody, but they’d all seen it, could feel his rage and something like despair radiating off of him. So they’d kept their distance, John most of all. And Arthur ain’t really been the same since. Got lost in the drink and turned up black and blue more often than not for a while there. Even now the rage is always simmering, but like it’s laced with sadness. Loneliness. John still doesn’t have a clue _why_ , and whatever’s happening between them now didn’t suddenly open the air for questions like that. John knows better than to ask.

So he sits there on his horse, stewing in his anger as he wonders what the hell he’s doing. What the hell Arthur is doing. He presses his legs tight against his horse, fingers clenching around the leather of the reins in his hand. His eyes wander on the passing scenery as they continue riding into the encroaching darkness of night and John thinks about just turning around and heading back to camp. Ending whatever this is if it was little more than a passing amusement to Arthur — _little Johnny Marston can’t kiss_ — or worse, that it was a stupid mistake. 

He looks up at Arthur’s back when he praises his horse, a murmured _good boy _floating into the open-air back toward John. And he can’t leave. Even feeling like the biggest fool, he’s _curious_ , wants more of whatever he can get if he has a chance of getting it. So he rides, tension running thick in his blood as he trails behind Arthur the whole way to their destination, wherever Arthur decides that may be.__

____

____

  


* * *

  


It’s nowhere special to John’s eyes as he dismounts his horse. His eyes flick about, a few trees dotted here and there, but the land is mostly just tall grass and a few bushes. 

Arthur starts setting up his tent soon as he’s off his horse, still not uttering a word to John. So with a roll of his eyes, John walks off to gather any bits of wood, branches, and twigs he can find strewn about so he can get their fire started. He gathers a small pile of dry grass for kindling and kneels down, pulling a matchbook from his satchel and tending to the tiny flame until it grows into a decent fire.

By the time the campfire is burning fully, Arthur has his tent set up and is rolling his bedroll out underneath it. John rises to his feet and grabs his own bedroll off his saddle, unfurling it on the ground a few feet from the firelight. He lifts his satchel over his shoulder and tosses it carelessly next to his bedroll as he sits down. Reaching inside, John pulls out some salted meat and a chunk of bread. He nibbles on the meat as they both sit there silently, John adamantly refusing to look at Arthur and whatever he might be doing. He swallows the last bite and breaks off a tiny chunk of drying bread, tosses it into the fire, and watches it turn black as it burns. Boredom engulfs him like a flame as he tears off another chunk and tosses it in too.

There’s stirring from Arthur’s tent that John ignores until Arthur walks over and comes to a standstill above him, his boots either side of John’s feet where they’re extended out in front of him on his bedroll. 

John still refuses to look up at him, tosses another chunk of bread into the fire through the spread of Arthur’s legs. And he knows he’s acting childish. Like a brat not getting his way. But this really _is_ Arthur’s fault. He _started it_ , and that thought, the petulance of it, makes John scowl.

Arthur sits down on the ground next to John’s bedroll, one knee raised in the air, the other bent underneath himself. He’s staring right at him, John can feel his eyes. 

“You’re pouting,” Arthur says, and he sounds amused, which isn’t the worst thing he could sound like. Better amused than feeling the weight of the ten years that separates the two of them. Or irritation.

John looks up from the crumbs of bread in his hand, glancing at Arthur out of the corner of his eye. He startles when Arthur moves suddenly, rises up onto his knee, and swings his leg around to straddle John’s extended legs, sits himself down on the tops of John’s thighs.

John stares up at him stupidly, can feel his eyes widen a bit as he leans his weight back on his hands, giving himself a little room to breathe as Arthur sets his own hands down on John’s shoulders and shifts around to get comfortable.

“I ain’t sayin’ we can’t,” Arthur says. He mindlessly pinches a bit of John’s shirt between two fingers. “I guess I just don’t know why you want to with me.” He shrugs one shoulder and releases, then smooths the crease out of John’s shirt.

And John doesn’t really know what to say, what answer he could give that might convince Arthur of anything, especially since he doesn’t even really know why other than that he just _does_. All he knows is he wants to kiss Arthur, touch him, hear all the different sounds he can make, all the stupid little jokes he probably tells in the middle of it. So John just thinks _fuck it_ and he fists a hand in Arthur’s shirt, pulls him forward and into a kiss.

John feels a wave of adrenaline surge along his nerves as Arthur gives him at least one thing he wants, a quiet sound surfacing from deep in his chest as he angles his head just slightly and presses right back into John’s lips. He shifts a hand from John’s shoulder up into his hair, fingers sliding through to cup the back of John’s head. 

John hums as that sends tingles along his skin, then slips his tongue just inside Arthur’s mouth, brushing the tip along his palate right behind his teeth. He licks in deeper to taste inside, breathing through his nose as hitched sounds fall from his own lips. He jerks away as Arthur huffs a laugh. 

Arthur bites against his bottom lip as he retreats, tugs on a bit of John’s hair and murmurs, “You and the tongue,” he teases. 

And yeah yeah, he’s made it clear already, but John doesn’t even care. He likes it, whether it’s excessive or not is almost beside the point to him. He likes kissing wild and free, the only thought in his head the taste of the person he’s kissing, the feel of their tongue against his, the tingling pleasure of it as he loses himself in how good it feels.

And maybe... Maybe a bit of that is on his face for Arthur to read loud and clear because he rolls his eyes and snorts a little laugh at John, but he leans in again, licking his way into John’s mouth and smiles against his lips when John moans helplessly. They sit there kissing until John’s lips start going numb from the scrape of Arthur’s beard, both of them panting a little harder when Arthur pulls back with one last nip against John’s lower lip.

He stares down at John for a few moments, licks, bites down, and releases his own lip then swings himself off of John’s lap and up to his feet. He towers over John, his eyes flicking down to where John is hard in his pants, bulge obvious. 

John flushes, cheeks heating as he bends his knees up and rests his arms on his kneecaps. He stares at the hand that’s extended down toward him, palm up. 

“Come on,” Arthur says, his fingers wiggling a little, beckoning John to take hold of his hand.

John is yanked to his feet the second his hand is in Arthur’s grasp. Then Arthur drops it and stoops down to pick up John’s bedroll and satchel, carries both into his tent, and places them on the ground next to his own things. He crawls in and lies down on his back, his gaze on John. 

“You coming or not?” Arthur asks. He crosses one ankle over the other as he reaches his hand down and places it against the hard line in his own pants.

John takes a deep breath through his nose as he watches the way Arthur’s fingers move against himself and he licks his lips nervously. He walks the few feet forward and crawls inside the tent, settling on his bedroll facing Arthur. He sits there, legs crossed, staring hard at Arthur’s hand as he squeezes his cock, rolls his hips up to press himself harder against his palm through his clothes. He caresses his free hand against his upper thigh and up, up, _up_ the length of his torso, then lifts his head up to rest on top of his upturned palm, elbow crooked out to the side.

“Gimme your hand,” Arthur says, voice quiet in the tent, the dim light of the fire still burning away outside casting shadows in the darkness.

John keeps his eyes low, fixed on Arthur’s hand where he still lazily clutches himself, refusing to meet Arthur’s eyes as the tension rises a tick up the back of his neck. He shifts around to pull the edge of his bedroll closer up against Arthur’s then sits cross-legged again.

Arthur grabs him the second he’s within reach and places John’s palm on top of his hard cock, closing his own hand around John’s to squeeze slightly, a low, pleased hum rumbling in the back of his throat.

John can feel his cheeks heating, already so goddamn turned on, and licks his lips thoughtlessly as he twists his wrist around to feel the full length of Arthur’s cock under his palm, his fingertips just brushing along his balls.

Arthur sighs, his chest rising and falling deep. “Yeah, you want it.” He squeezes his hand around John’s again and John can feel even his ears blush red, swallows deep enough his throat clicks loudly in the quiet of the tent.

Arthur wraps his fingers around John’s wrist and pulls his hand up to rest on top of the button of his pants. He leaves John’s hand resting there, his fingertips brushing softly against John’s skin as he lifts his hand and places it alongside the other still tucked away underneath his head.

John fiddles with the button with his thumb and forefinger, feeling stupid for feeling a little nervous. He swallows again, his throat dry, then pushes the button free with his fingers and makes quick work of the rest, pushing them through one by one, then parts the sides of Arthur’s pants. John’s eyes flick up to Arthur’s, who is staring back at him wordlessly, his eyes all intense, until he breaks John’s gaze and stares pointedly down at John’s hand where it rests to the side of his parted button fly.

John’s pulse throbs in his ears as he twists his hand around for a good angle to rest his palm against the hardness nestled under Arthur’s union suit. He squeezes once, smiling slightly at the pleased little noise Arthur makes, then flicks quickly through enough of the buttons of the union suit to give himself room to delve his hand inside and pull Arthur’s cock free.

He licks his lips as he releases his grip, Arthur’s cock straining up, the head bouncing slightly as it comes to a rest on his abdomen. John takes his own bottom lip between his teeth, chews on it, and reaches out with his hand to run his thumb up the underside from base to crown. He lets his lip pop free from between his teeth as Arthur sighs, the sound spurring John on. He takes a gentle hold, his fingers wrapping around the thick heft of Arthur’s cock. 

“Mm,” Arthur grunts, and John looks up, his eyes catching on the wet slick of Arthur’s lips as he licks across, his eyes fixated on John’s immobile fingers wrapped around him. 

John keeps watching his face as he squeezes a shade tighter and strokes his hand up to the head, foreskin pulling up and over the crown a little under his grip. He strokes his hand back down, exposing the sensitive underside, and rubs the pad of his thumb right under the head, a tiny circle, then two, three, eyes focused hard on Arthur for any little reaction. He’s chewing on his lip again as he watches Arthur’s eyes slip closed, his lashes fluttering when John strokes down to the base and back up the length, then repeats the same again and again to the sound of Arthur’s quiet moans.

“I’d ask how you’re so good at that,” Arthur says, his voice a little breathless as he opens his eyes. “But I know how often you touch yourself.” He snorts a small laugh as John scowls mildly at the mocking tease. “You ain’t the least stealthy or quiet when you really get going.” He moans deeper, louder, as John moves his hand faster. “God, come here.” He extends his arm out and John lies down next to him, leaning half over Arthur propped up on his forearm, the fingers on his free hand tucking just under Arthur’s back. He shifts his hand around into a more comfortable position to keep stroking along Arthur’s cock, brushes his thumb against the slit as Arthur’s cock is practically straining now, dark red at the head and leaking pre-come.

Arthur tips his head back, his face pointed at the ceiling of the tent, eyes closing as John tries to find a rhythm that makes Arthur’s chest hitch and breath catch in his throat. He lifts his arm and curves it around John’s shoulder, pulls John in tighter to the heat radiating off of his body. 

And John’s mouth is bone dry, heart racing in his chest as he stares down at his hand moving fast along the length, slick sounds loud in the otherwise nearly silent tent. The only other noise that of Arthur’s hard breathing, his breathless moans. His hips start twitching like he wants to fuck up into John’s hand, chase his orgasm with tight thrusts. But he reaches down lightning-fast, softly knocks John’s hand away from his cock and takes himself in hand, his fingers wrapping tight around the thick length of it at the base. He groans a cut off frustrated sound but leans up toward where John is hovering at his side, grabs the back of John’s head with the hand of the arm he still has wrapped around John’s shoulder and pulls him down for a kiss, breathing hard into John’s mouth. He licks inside and smiles against John’s lips when John groans, his hips thrusting helplessly into Arthur’s side.

Arthur pulls back, tilts his head down to look at John’s hard cock where it’s trapped inside his pants. He lets go of his own cock and places his hand against the front of John’s pants.

“Fuck,” John gasps just from the heat of Arthur’s hand seeping through his clothes. He starts thrusting his hips, slow little waves up and back down, his eyes clenched shut as he pants through his open mouth, bites a groove along his lip as Arthur squeezes around him with every upward thrust of John’s hips.

“Look at you,” Arthur murmurs, voice like gravel. He pulls his hand away from John’s cock, huffing a laugh at John’s disapproving groan, and pushes John onto his back.

He pulls John’s shirt free from the waistband of his pants to bunch up around his stomach and makes quick work of the buttons on John’s pants and union suit. He gets both spread to reach inside, pulling John’s cock out into the cool night air. The touch of his skin sends frissons along John’s nerves.

Arthur leans forward into John’s space, his body a hot line against John’s as he scrapes his teeth along John’s jaw, down to his chin, and then licks a stripe with the tip of his tongue up to John’s ear. His hand moves fast on John’s cock, pulling him along toward orgasm, already so close just from kissing and touching Arthur. John turns his head toward Arthur’s, tilts up and bites at Arthur’s lip, then releases it. “Gonna,” he mumbles.

“Yeah,” Arthur says, and his hand keeps moving, a near-perfect hold on John’s cock, a corkscrew twist right at the head that brushes his palm right over the slit. John’s pulse is throbbing in his ears, muscles in his abdomen clenching tight under his still buttoned clothes. His hair is sweaty and sticking to the side of his neck, and he gulps a breath into an unreleased hold in his lungs, nosing gently into Arthur’s cheek as he tips over the edge, come shooting up the length of his bunched up shirt and dripping down across Arthur’s knuckles as his hand strokes John through his orgasm. “That’s it,” Arthur’s voice rumbles quietly near his ear.

John’s head plops down to his bedroll, breath gusting out of him in gasps of air as his heart beats wildly in his chest. He turns toward Arthur where he’s still hovering to the side, head close enough John could lean up and kiss him if he wasn’t feeling so lazy now that he’d shot his brains out of his dick.

He rolls his head along the bedroll enough that he can look down as Arthur releases his spent cock and wraps his fingers back around himself, stroking tight and fast at the head. John feels heat flush up and down his body, cheeks blushing at the sight of his own slick come spreading along the length of Arthur's cock with every movement of his hand. “God,” John says, voice catching in his throat.

Arthur’s shoulders jerk at the sound, his head turning slightly to look from his own cock up to John’s eyes. He fucks harder into his fist, thrusts going erratic until he comes, groaning deep in his chest with each pulse as he strokes himself through it. He flops down on his back immediately after, body half on his own bedroll and half on John’s, breathing hard and satisfied.

John stares down at Arthur’s cock, still hard and slick against his body. He reaches for it and rubs the side of his thumb up the length again, chuckling a little when Arthur grunts and swats his hand away. He tucks himself away as soon as he’s soft enough to manage it, but too lazy to do up all the buttons.

After a couple of minutes, Arthur turns his head on the ground to look at John, eyebrow quirked like he’s pleased with himself.

“What?” John asks, voice tinged with suspicion. 

Arthur lifts his hand and slaps John in the chest, smearing his come covered hand along the fabric of John's shirt. He laughs at the disgusted look on John’s face, “Never should’a let me know it grosses you out,” he says, chuckling easily as he tucks his own cock into his clothes, buttoning up as he goes.

“Asshole,” John mutters, then punches Arthur’s thigh when he laughs again.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed it. Do let me know what you think. :D
> 
> And is it weird that I find the union suits super hot? Because I do. 🙈


End file.
